


i'll take care of you (if you ask me to)

by crisptrepidation



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (discussions of 3x06), Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, EMT Ian Gallagher, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Married Life, Mental Health Issues, Parenthood, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 10, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy, Top Ian Gallagher, baby fever, basically my take on s11, fuck it uncle mickey on the tl, gay jesus references, i miss svet and yevgeny, im not sure if its gonna be smutty at all yet well see, mickey and franny content baby, mickey coming to terms with his trauma and learning better coping mechanisms, someone give ian gallagher a baby, uncle ian is strong in this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22157053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crisptrepidation/pseuds/crisptrepidation
Summary: There's just one thing missing Ian and Mickey's new married life.Or, the one where Ian has baby fever.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 29
Kudos: 203





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first ever fic posted to ao3 so i'm a little nervous but here goes nothing!! 
> 
> -title from take care by beach house  
> -tw/cw for brief discussion of the things that went down in 3x06 (nothing graphic, this fic will not be nearly as graphic at the show in any sense, let alone this one)  
> -canon compliant as of 10x09  
> -i am not bipolar, nor do i have ptsd, i am otherwise mentally ill so i write from experience and empathize that way, but my experiences and illnesses are not the same as ian's (and in the case of this fic, mickey's as well) so if you notice anything medically inaccurate or not right in any sense please let me know (note that i am doing my research and treating these issues with mu utmost care and respect. genuine & respectful mental illness rep is so important to me)  
> -much love to all of my friends who kindly beta read this for me, thank u!  
> -kudos and comments are a girl's best friend :)
> 
> say hi on twitter @chrrygallaghers and enjoy <3

Ikea furniture was far more complicated than it looked to assemble. Or maybe Mickey just really despised following instructions.

Either way, when Ian returned home to their little one-bedroom apartment (newly rented post-wedding, but still on the South Side, not very far from their roots. Two ex-cons working parole-appointed jobs could afford little more), he found Mickey in the exact same spot he’d left him, having made little-to-no progress on their newly purchased dining room table.

Ian sighed, but with a laugh under his breath. “Haven’t done jackshit, have you?”

Mickey glanced up at his husband, scowling. “Go fuck yourself is what I’ve done.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Ian shook his head, “shove over, I’ll do it.”

“No, fuck you, I’m doing this. Go get me a beer or something, be useful, Gallagher,” Mickey shooed him away.

“You do realize you’re a Gallagher too now right?” Ian mumbled, softly.

“Fuck that, I’m not a _Gallagher_ ,” Mickey mocked.

Ian rolled his eyes, grabbing the green-handled screwdriver from the smaller man’s hands while reaching halfway across the small room for the instruction booklet, which he assumed his partner had tossed away. He flipped through a page or two and busied himself with attaching the legs to the tabletop, which, evidently Mickey could not do with stability.

“How are you so fucking good at this?” Mickey gestured to the wooden table.

“Well, for one, Mick,” Ian started, “I read the instructions. And second, I’ve assembled and disassembled many a crib in my day. Table’s a breeze.”

Mickey stubbornly shook his head and walked the few feet towards their kitchen, where he grabbed two Budlites from the fridge and cracked one open, returning to hand the other to Ian. “How was that, anyway? Playing Uncle today?”

“Babysitting?” Ian chuckled, “not bad, Freddie screamed a bit when he woke up from his nap, but I got it under control eventually. Franny just wanted to play house, Liam helped.”

“I still don’t get why Liam couldn’t just look after the little fuckers himself,” Mickey voiced.

“Ah, well Tami’s all about the legality of things, and I guess so is Lip, now that he’s got Freddie. Safety and whatever. Liam’s not actually old enough to look after the kids on his own,” Ian explained. “Anyway, it gives me a reason to go back there once in a whole, when everyone’s work schedules collide. I dunno, don’t wanna forget about the place.”

Mickey nodded, taking a swig from his drink.

“Come hold this together, will you?” Ian motioned towards the second leg of the table, which was leaning a bit like the Tower of Piza as Ian attempted to screw it down.

“See, you can’t do it without me, bitch.”

Ian chuckled.

Together, they eventually did assemble the table, semi-effectively. It titled a bit towards to the left, if you leaned on it too hard, but fuck it, it was good enough. As long as it could hold two mugs and bowls, it would do the job.

The two of them carried the table to sit where the kitchen tile met the worn hardwood of the living room (there was no real dining room, not that they felt they really needed one) while quietly admiring their (Ian’s) quick work.

“You ever think about Yevgeny, Mick?” Ian broke their comfortable silence. Being with his siblings’ children, being married, it all made him miss the little boy who was the closest to his own as he’d ever known.

Mickey hesitated, visibly taken aback, rendered uncomfortable by the question. “‘Course I do,” he mumbled, “that’s my fucking son. ‘Course I do.”

“Sorry, I just,” Ian tried to take his words back.

“You what?” Mickey asked, a little tired.

Ian was bluffing, he ran a hand through his slicked-back cinnamon hair. “I guess I just miss him too. I dunno, watching Lip and Debs with their kids, I just get a little jealous, I mean we’re the married ones, you know.”

Mickey chuckled, dismissively, “suddenly a traditionalist are ya, hot stuff?”

Ian’s face was sheepish, “wish I hadn’t fucked that up for us.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“Yevgeny. Before I was on my meds. We were a family, I ruined it.”

Mickey sighed, reaching over to Ian’s face, cupping the other man’s jaw in his hands. “Ian, we’ve been over this. That shit ain’t your fucking fault. You didn’t do shit, you didn’t fuck anything up. You, me, Svet? All three of us in my dad’s fucking house with the kid, too, it never would’ve lasted. Couldn’t stand the Russian bitch.”

Ian, though still appearing unconvinced, let out a short laugh. “I know.”

“Seriously though, man. You’re good. You took good fucking care of that kid. Better than I did. You could put him to sleep and shit, I refused to change his diaper. I was a shit dad. Didn’t want anything to do with him,” Mickey said.

It was Ian’s turn to take on the reassuring role. “No one would’ve wanted a kid under those circumstances, Mick. That was fucking rape, you know that right?”

“Jesus, Ian. Calm down,” Mickey urged. It was a touchy subject. He didn’t want to talk about, he couldn’t. If he even thought about it too much his hands would shake, maybe he’d throw up, or cry. Milkoviches don’t fucking cry (then Ian would remind him he’s a Gallagher now, and Gallaghers do).

“Sorry for mentioning it,” Ian leaned into Mickey, “I love you.”

“Love you too, bitchass.”

<><><><>

Ian lay awake in bed that night, one arm on Mickey’s rising and falling chest, as he listened to his husband’s breathing. He still wasn’t used to the stark silence of their apartment. The walls dividing them from the other units were far thicker than the ones that divided prison cells, and anything was quieter than the Gallagher house; with the loud clicking of Debbie’s heels as she stomped in late from a date, someone’s moans, a baby’s cries. Fuck, Ian thought. He almost longed for the sound of a baby’s cries (not that he’d leave the baby crying, he’d rock it back or sleep, or something, he’d take care of it).

He really needed to get up. Splash some cold water on his face, do a couple of pushups. Stop thinking about kids. He was digging himself into a hole, letting the whole being-a-dad fantasy consume him. It wasn’t going to happen, Ian chided himself. He doubted Mickey wanted anything to do with kids. They had never really, properly talked about it. Which, Ian noted, probably wasn’t very normal for people who’d been together for as long as they had, and married for two months, but it wasn’t like the question had been on their radar while fucking in the back of a grocery store, or through his diagnosis, or while serving time.

Nonetheless, Ian was almost certain that the answer would be no. Mickey had a worse track record with father figures than he did (which was saying a lot), and he’d struggled to even look at baby Yevgeny (these were all things Ian wished Mickey would talk to someone about, work through a therapist, but Mickey would never agree. He’d always brush the topic off, change it, and Ian couldn’t blame him).

Besides, Ian thought, Yevgeny was out of the question, anyway, off god knows where with Svetlana; and no one was going to let a gay, bipolar felon adopt their child.

He sucked in his breath, shutting his eyes. The odds were fucking stacked against him.

Ian spent the next two hours replaying these thoughts in his head. He didn’t move though, just lay there with all his doubts. He’d learned the hard way it was better to not get up in the night, even to piss. Mickey would stir at the slightest noise of Ian rising, convinced it was a manic episode coming on, and then he wouldn’t let him out of his sight for hours. Ian didn’t want to make him panic, he appreciated the concern, but he didn’t want to stress his husband. His meds had been stable for a while now; the majority of the time, he just really had to piss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and here's chapter two!
> 
> no cw/tw i can think of for this one, she's on the lighter side. 
> 
> drop a comment letting me know what you think, and don't forget to leave kudos if you enjoyed, they mean more than you know! 
> 
> ps i tried a little something in mickey's perspective and i want your thoughts!!
> 
> twitter: @chrrygallaghers

from **_Debbie_ ** , to **_Gallagher Gang:_ **

_who’s going to liam’s parent teacher interview 2nite???_

**_Lip:_ **

_can’t tami wants me @ freddie’s 4month checkup_

**_Debbie:_ **

_well_ _im working so_

**_Carl:_ **

_me too_

**_Debbie:_ **

_ian?????_

**_Ian:_ **

_got a meeting w my parole officer, what time?_

**_Debbie:_ **

_4:30_

**_Ian:_ **

_can’t get there until 4:45, i’ll send mick and meet them there, k??_

**_Lip:_ **

_ur sending mickey to an elementary school?_

**_Ian:_ **

_u got a better idea?_

**_Debbie:_ **

_fuck it, get mickey to go. we agreed we’d always have some1 there for liam, better than nothing_

Ian glanced up from his phone, fixing his gaze on Mickey, standing at the counter sipping on a mug of coffee. “So, I need you to go to a meeting at Liam’s school.”

Mickey looked at Ian, confused. “Alone?”

“I mean, I’ll come too, but I got a meeting with my P.O., can’t get there on time,” Ian explained.

“And why do we have to go to Liam’s school?” Mickey turned up his nose.

“Parent-teacher interviews,” Ian poured himself a bowl of cereal.

“You want me to go meet Liam’s teacher?” Mickey deadpanned.

Ian sighed, “I know it’s stupid, but we all agreed, we didn’t want Liam to have to the absentee Frank experience, and Fiona’s not around anymore either, so someone’s gotta. And Debs, Lip, and Carl all can’t make it.”

“Which leaves you and me,” Mickey followed.

“Exactly.”

“You realize I am literally the worst fucking person to send to a sixth grade classroom, right?” Mickey flashed the _FUCK U - UP_ scrawled across his knuckles.

Ian rolled his eyes, “who knows, maybe you’ll learn something. You ever memorize your times tables, Mick?”

Ian grinned, and Mickey groaned. “Fuck you, Gallagher.” 

  
  


<><><><>

  
  


“Mickey? Why are you here?” Liam, clad in a preppy little purple polo and a backpack almost twice his size, asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine, kid. Ian sent me,” Mickey shrugged.

“I thought Lip was coming. This’ll be… something,” Liam mumbled.

“Do we, uh, go in?” Mickey gestured to the classroom door, all decked out in stupid stickered on slogans like “ _learning happens here_ ” and “ _throw kindness like confetti_ ”. Liam nodded. 

“Oh and Mickey?” Liam asked. 

“Hmm?” 

“Limit your cussing, please. Ms. Thomas doesn’t know that I come from a family of degenerates, and I’d like to keep up my image,” Liam fixed his collar, and Mickey wondered where the fuck Frank and Monica had found the collegiate little shit. 

Mickey snorted, opening the ridiculous door, “sure thing, kid.” 

“Hi, Liam!” exclaimed the most god-awful, peppy female voice.

Liam beamed his infamous adult-charming smile at the teacher and gave Mickey a warning one.

The teacher, Ms. Thomas, Liam had said, turned her attention to Mickey. She looked at him confused.

Her expression said “ _why are you white”_ but her mouth, with a tone as sweet as Mickey’s favourite strawberry Jell-O, said, “are you, um, Liam’s dad?”

“No, uh,” Mickey swallowed a laugh. “His older brother’s husband.”

Ms. Thomas blinked twice in surprise. It was the “but you don’t look gay” look Mickey had become accustomed to in recent years, but she quickly attempted to recover and stuck out her perfectly manicured hand to shake his - cue the “please don’t think I’m homophobic look”, Mickey found it all amusing, honestly. 

She then noticed the _FUCK_ spelled out across his hand, and again hesitated to find her words, she pulled her hand away fast, like she thought Mickey would bite.

She motioned for Mickey and Liam to take a seat across from her desk. “Do you mind me asking where Liam’s parents are?”

“Frank?” Mickey shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mi-”

“My sister is my legal guardian,” Liam interrupted, not impressed with Mickey’s response. 

“And where is she?” 

“Fiona’s away on business,” Liam said, without missing a beat. He knew better than anyone that admitting his legal guardian lived out of state would set off a few red flags. 

“I see, and your husband, Mr, um, Gallagher?” 

“He’s on his way,” Mickey explained.

“Ian’s coming from work,” Liam chimed in. The youngest Gallagher sibling had the most impressive, uncharacteristic manners of the family, but he had inherited the ability to cover their asses just as well as his older brothers and sisters.

“I see,” the young woman, hardly pushing 30 folded her hands together. “Well, we’ve got a limited time here so I think it’s best if we begin without him.”

She sorted through a folder on her desk, picking out several sheets with GALLAGHER, LIAM typed in bold along the top, shuffling through them briefly before starting her discourse. 

“Liam is a joy to have in class,” she recited, and Mickey had to stop himself from rolling his eyes, this bitch was truly just pulling the absolute most generic praise out of her ass.

The door swung open, and with it appeared a panting, flush-faced Ian. “Sorry I’m late,” he exhaled. “Ran all the way here. Liam’s brother, Ian Gallagher, nice to meet you,” he leaned over the desk to shake the teacher’s hand. 

“You too,” she smiled politely, Ian usually drew in far more respect from strangers than Mickey, but he didn’t mind. He liked watching Ian make small talk. “We were just discussing how great Liam here is.”

Ian gave his proud big brother smile that Mickey figured could probably cure cancer and pulled up a plastic chair beside his husband. 

“Hey,” Ian whispered, going in for a kiss, “thanks for doing this.”

Mickey smirked happily into Ian’s lips. The teacher coughed awkwardly, and Liam raised his eyebrows severely.

“As I was saying,” Ms. Thomas started again. 

Mickey hardly listened, he was too busy looking at how good involved-older-brother-slash-father-figure mode looked on Ian, how easily it suited him; sitting in an elementary classroom listening to this woman rave about Liam’s academic accomplishments. And it scared Mickey. Ian didn’t have to say anything, he could just _see_ how badly Ian wanted it with a child of their own someday. 

  
  


<><><><>

  
  


Ian couldn’t get Svetlana and her parenting off his mind.

He’d get up in the morning, think about Svetlana and Yevgeny. Drink coffee, eat breakfast, take his meds, maybe Mickey would blow him if he was lucky. Wonder where they were. Walk to Patsy’s, where he’s been working for the last couple of months. Ponder whether or not Svetlana would’ve even mentioned him to Yevgeny (he guessed no, unfortunately). All through his shift: does Yevgeny ask about Mickey? Lunch break. He’s six now, so he’s started school, has he made friends? Back to work. Can he read? All afternoon, carrying around dirty dishes. Is he fluent in Russian? Is Svetlana raising a little commie? Ian wanted to know Yevgeny’s favourite meal and the name the stuffed animal he couldn’t sleep without. It went on like that all day, for days. 

Ian finally gave into his thoughts a week after initially bringing up Yevgeny with Mickey when he found himself perched on a barstool at the Alibi, asking Kev about the Russian woman.

“So, like, where did Svetlana go?” Ian spoke up.

Kev threw his towel over his shoulder, “easy. North Side,” he pointed in Tommy and Kermit’s direction, which was certainly not north.

“She’s still in Chicago?” Ian was taken aback, he’d just assumed she’d fucked off back to Siberia, or wherever, with all her Alibi cash.

“Yeah,” Kev paused, squinting, “why?” 

“Guess I thought it would take a lot longer distance to get her to stay away for good,” Ian shrugged, taking a swig of the beer in front of him.

“Nah. We married her off to some old rich dude. Good enough,” Kev poured another round for his regulars.

“What do you want with Svetlana, anyway?” Tommy piped up from down the line. “Mickey not making your dick hard anymore? You in need of a whore job?”

“My dick is great, and still likes other dicks, especially one in particular, fuck you very much,” Ian rebuked.

“So, if not for sex, why would you need Svetlana?” Kevin asked, looking genuinely confused (Ian thanked his lucky stars that Debbie wasn’t around to hear that one, they would’ve never heard the end of her scolding the misogynistic implications of Kev’s comment, which Ian supposed was true).

“Just have a question for her,” Ian replied.

“Oh,” Kev chewed down on his lip. “Weird.”

Ian downed the rest of his drink quickly, the Alibi had a certain aura, or maybe smell, that was so unmistakably Frank, which Ian preferred not to dwell in for long, no offense meant to Kev and V.

He rose from his seat and slid a ten across the counter to Kev.

“Wait, Ian,” Kev said. “I still have Svet’s number, if you want it.”

Ian’s eyes lit up. “Shit, really? That would be, uh yeah, that would be great.”

Kev pulled out the big binder Veronica kept under the till and paged through until he found what he was looking for, then he copied the number down onto a napkin and passed it to Ian, which he pocketed carefully. 

The napkin burned a hole in the back pocket of Ian’s jeans for another week. 

  
  


<><><><>

Two days later, Lip was the first person Ian put it all out there for. He figured he needed to tell someone before he bit the bullet that might break all stability apart, and called Svetlana.

The brothers were sat on the back stairs of the Gallagher house, with a sleeping Freddie strapped to Lip’s chest in a Baby Bjorn, and Ian puffing on a cigarette (in the opposite direction of his nephew, per Lip’s demand). 

“What’s it like being a dad?” Ian blurted. 

Lip hesitated, pursing his lips, “it’s a shit load of responsibility is what it is.”

“No, seriously, dude,” Ian continued. “What’s it like having this tiny person, who’s just like, yours?”

“Well,” Lip laughed. “When you put it like that… I mean it’s kind of fucking crazy, you know?”

“No,” Ian huffed, “I really don’t know.”

“Okay, well I haven’t slept through the night since Fred was born, and you can’t just like, eat breakfast, you gotta feed someone else first,” Lip gestured with his hands, getting into it. “Dirty diaper stink is just about the default smell inside the RV. Which, I mean, isn’t that different from Frank stench so that’s probably the smallest adjustment.” 

Ian wrinkled his nose, smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He just wanted to be happy for his brother, but the emotion in the pit of his stomach was jealousy. He fell quiet for a moment. 

“Wish I could experience it,” Ian mumbled.

“What?”

Ian’s face was in his empty hand, “I just really fucking want a kid, Lip.”

Lip looked at his brother wide-eyed and astonished. “Where did this come from?”

“Guess it’s just a bunch of things I’ve been thinking about for a while now culminating,” Ian explained. 

“Culminating in you wanting to be a parent?” Lip clarified.

“I just, I just see you and Debbie with Franny and Freddie, and I think back to Yevgeny, to when he was around. I look at Mick and this fucking ring on my finger,” Ian held up the wedding band on his hand. “I just know that’s what I want with him. I know it’s what’s missing.” 

“You’re so fucking dramatic sometimes,” Lip was grinning. “Fuck it, pass that here.” Lip pointed to Ian’s cigarette.

Ian handed it to him, and Lip took a drag, visibly thinking. He blew out over his shoulder, absolutely away from Fred. Normally he wouldn’t smoke around the kid, period, but he needed the nicotine to set his thoughts about Ian’s newfound revelation straight.

“You listen to what I said?” Ian snatched his cigarette back.

“Yeah, Ian,” Lip nodded, smiling skeptically. “I heard you.”

Ian looked at Lip expectantly, who titled his head a bit, glanced down to check on his son, and tapped his finger on his chin all before answering, taking his sweet time. 

“You’re serious about this?” Lip raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah, fuck. I think I _am_ ,” Ian admitted.

“Because you know, you can’t just give the kid back after. Or, wait, actually, if you’re Mickey maybe you can. Doesn’t he have a history of that?” 

Ian scowled at Lip. “Ha ha ha,” he replied drily. “You think you’re hilarious.”

“Is it not a valid point?” Lip inquired.

“No, it’s not. Because that was a very fucking different situation that I still don’t think you understand,” Ian had become defensive. He was defensive of his husband. 

“He went to prison, Ian.”

“So did I.”

Lip contemplated the statement, he supposed that it was true. “Okay, forget it. I’m just surprised Mickey would suddenly want a baby now, if he didn’t before, and hasn’t made any effort to get to know the kid since.”

“Exactly my concern,” Ian grimaced. 

“Wait - you haven’t talked to him about this yet?” Lip looked startled.

“Haven’t talked to anyone about it,” Ian paused. “I kinda tried to bring it up with Mick, but once I mentioned Yevgeny, he just, like, shut down. Didn’t wanna push it.”

“So you’ve never talked about kids?” Lip asked, astounded. “Jesus, Tami and I were having baby talk before we were even official. You’re _married_.”

“Well, we can’t just do it raw and pop one out in nine months, it didn’t really… come up,” Ian shook his head. “‘S so much more fucking complicated. We’d need to adopt, or something, which I don’t even know if they let you do with a criminal record.” 

“Oh really? I thought this was all your elaborate way of telling me you’d knocked up Mickey Milkovich.”

Ian let out a chuckle and gave Lip’s shoulder a little punch.

“Hey, not the kid,” Lip warned, putting up his hand to shield Fred from Ian’s wrath. 

“Not punching your kid,” Ian rolled his eyes. “Just your dumbass.”

“Mhm,” Lip nodded along sarcastically. “Go talk to your fucking husband.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: discussions of bipolar disorder and allusions to the events of 3x06
> 
> hello everyone! i'm so sorry this chapter hasn't come sooner, its currently finals szn for me and im STRESSIN ! i wanna thank u all very very much for the kind words i've received about this work so far. i'm so grateful <3
> 
> this chapter got a little angstier than i maybe warned in the tags but dont fret, it will all work out in the end. also! were just gonna ignore all the lip/tami milwaukee drama for now ok 
> 
> kudos + comments mean the world <3
> 
> twitter @chrrygallaghers

“Hey, Mick?” Ian called out, stepping in the door to their apartment. He kicked off his sneakers and dropped his keys, nervously.

“Kitchen!” Mickey shouted back.

Ian found Mickey hovered over a frying pan, a blackened excuse for dinner smoking away. “Thought I’d try cooking.”

“So I see,” Ian trailed off.

“Probably a chemical hazard,” Mickey scraped the contents of the pan (Ian truly wasn’t sure what exactly they were) into the garbage. “You want a fuckin’ sandwich or something?”

“Sure, Mick. Thanks,” Ian pulled out a dining chair, sat down, and began anxiously twiddling his fingers, debating whether he really wanted to bring this up. He watched his husband, who was nonchalantly pulling ham and cheese slices from their fridge, humming a Bon Jovi tune under his breath as he assembled two sandwiches.

Mickey threw Ian’s sandwich on a plate and took a heaping bite of his own.

“Can you sit down? I wanna talk to you about something,” Ian voiced.

“Sure, what?” Mickey asked between chews, a wad of bread in his mouth, and sat down.

Ian took a gulp of air.

“I got Svetlana’s number,” he deadpanned.

Mickey turned up his nose. “The fuck, why?”

“Because I want us to go see Yevgeny.”

Mickey hesitated, his face washing with something between hurt, shock, and surprise. “What the fuck, Ian?”

“I just,” Ian’s voice was both defensive and apologetic. He’d expected this reaction. “I miss him. I want a relationship with him.”

“You want a relationship with my kid?”

“I want, I want a kid of our own, Mickey,” Ian told him truthfully. “And I don’t know how we’d go about that. But Yevgeny’s already right there. He and Svet are still in the city, you know? He was ours once. We could have that again.” 

“Well Yevgeny isn’t your fucking kid,” Mickey hissed. “You don’t just get to call up my ex-wife behind my back to see him.” 

That stung all too harshly. Ian knew that really, Mickey was right, but he had loved that baby and taken care of him like he was his very own. He’d whispered stories about “Uncle” Lip and “Auntie” Fiona to a sleepy baby Yevgeny, simply instinctually. Yevgeny had been _his_ baby (Mickey and Svetlana’s too, undoubtedly). Ian worried that was the closest, the only time he would get to feel like a father, and he had been too young and too sick to even soak it up at the time.

“I-I”, Ian’s voice broke. “I didn’t call her. I waited. I waited to talk to you. I waited for you.”

“Bullshit. You’ll want to call her no matter what I say,” Mickey huffed.

Ian crossed his arms, “is this about Yevgeny or is it about Svetlana to you?”

“It’s not about fucking either of them!” Mickey exclaimed, he was stood up, pacing around the room furiously now. “It’s about you and the fact that you didn’t ask me about any of this before you went into the hand whore fucking call directory looking. We’re fucking married, Ian. You’re supposed to _tell_ me things.”

Ian hesitated, he reigned in the urge to yell back and softened his voice. “Mick, I did try to talk to you about it. I brought Yevgeny up. When we were building the table.” he laid his hands down on the wooden structure in front of him. “You didn’t want to talk about it, or you couldn’t, really.”

“So you thought, ‘hmm fuck he doesn’t want to talk about this, might just surprise him with a visit instead’? What fuck kinda sense does that make?” Mickey retaliated, flexing his knuckles and balling his hands up into fists; his flight or flight mode visibly enacted.

“Mickey, calm down,” Ian reached stood up to match Mickey, and reached for his arm. Mickey only pulled away. “Can’t we just talk about this like adults.”

“No we fucking can’t,” Mickey sighed furiously. “I can’t fucking do this right now.”

Mickey stormed out of the room, and by the indication of the slamming door, out of the house.

“Fuck, Mickey,” Ian muttered.

<><><><>

Mickey didn’t come home until late that night, but Ian waited up. He sat on the couch counting the seconds, a light on, shining in their window like a beacon signaling _come home, let’s talk_. Ian was fighting his eyes to stay open, but he had promised himself, ever since he’d almost lost Mickey at the courthouse all those months ago, that they’d never let them go to bed angry. 

It startled Ian when he finally heard the door creak open, as the time neared one-thirty. 

Mickey came tumbling in, look disheveled and less than sober, his eyes were bloodshot. He kicked off his boots and beelined for the bedroom.

Ian came following quickly after, “Mickey, wait!” he called. 

It fell on deaf ears.

“Mick, come on, seriously?” Ian tried again, lingering in the dark bedroom doorway.

Mickey only yanked off his jeans and unbuttoned his flannel shirt. He stripped down to a wife-beater and boxers, climbing into bed without a word.

Ian yawned, in both exhaustion and exasperation, he had gone into work for the early breakfast rush that morning. “Really, you’re doing this?”

He slunk onto his side of the bed, triggering Mickey to roll further onto his side, keeping their distance.

They both pretended to be asleep long into the night.

<><><><>

When Ian awoke, sunlight was peaking around the cracks in the blinds and the sheets beside him lay empty. 

He reached for his phone, glancing at the time. 9:42. He’d forgot to set an alarm the previous night, amongst all that tension (it didn’t matter, he didn’t work until 11:30, anyway). 

Ian padded his way to the kitchen, which he found empty too. Mickey was long gone. It was a Wednesday, Mickey worked a proper nine-to-five on Wednesdays. There was a full mug of black coffee (just how Ian liked it) next to Ian’s orange pill bottle on the counter. Mickey tended to do that when he woke up first, make him coffee and subtlety remind him to take his meds, even though Ian always did. Ian stared at that cup of coffee, now gone cold, and felt himself let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Relief: _he doesn’t hate me for bringing this up. He just needs time._

Ian microwaved the coffee, checked his texts (8:16 am from his boss: _Hi Ian :) Please refill the ketchup and sugar when you get here_ , and another from Carl, 7:02 am: _whats my social security number debbie doesn’t know_ (Ian wasn’t sure how or why Carl expected him to know either)), and found his finger hovering over Fiona’s name in his messages. 

He hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with his eldest sister in months. When he’d told her to go away as far as she could without turning back, he hadn’t thought she’d never turn back. Not for the birth of Lip’s child, or his wedding day. Fiona hadn’t stepped foot in the state of Illinois in going on two years. Ian didn’t want to resent her for it, because she was finally living her own life, after supporting all her siblings' lives for so many years, it was what she deserved. But he missed her, he wished she seemed to miss him more. More than that though, he worried about Liam without Fiona around. She was the only thing Liam had ever known bearing any similarity to a parent and he had clung to her until the moment she left. All of the Gallagher siblings had been Fiona’s kids, but Liam was especially _her’s_. 

Ian didn’t know what to make of it, that the only person’s words of advice he craved now were Fiona’s, but he texted her either way.

 _From_ **_Ian_ ** _to_ **_Fiona_ ** _:_

_you got a sec?_

Much to Ian’s surprise, Fiona responded quickly. (He supposed it did make sense, though; it was still early in Los Angeles, she probably wasn’t at work yet, so naturally, she’d be on her phone).

 _From_ **_Fiona_ ** _to_ **_Ian_ ** _:_

_what’s up sweet face? :)_

**_Ian_ ** _:_

_mickeys pissed at me, cant decide what i should do about it._

_**Fiona** :_

_trouble in paradise? facetime me!_

Ian took a slurp of coffee and did just that.

When Fiona picked up, she was glowing, there was no other way to describe it. California sunshine and a quiet space of her own had clearly done wonders for her, she looked happier and better rested than Ian had probably ever seen her. Her hair hung like a curly halo around her smiling face. “How are you?” She greeted. 

Ian didn’t answer the question, not really. Instead, be shot straight for his point. “I brought up kids with Mickey. Well, I brought up Yevgeny. He freaked the fuck out.”

Fiona’s eyes widened. “Oh - oh fuck, Ian.”

“I know.”

“Kids? Since when do you want kids?” Fiona interjected.

“A while. I mean, kinda. I don’t know, forever, I guess. Just realized it lately,” Ian said thoughtfully.

“I shouldn’t be so surprised, you fucking loved Mickey’s kid when he was a baby,” Fiona’s expression was soft. 

“Dunno if Mick really loved him, though,” Ian said sheepishly.

Fiona smiled sadly. “I don’t think that situation had anything to do with love.”

Ian had never directly explained Yevgeny’s conception to anyone, but Fiona and Lip had long since put the pieces together. 

Ian scratched at the scruff he’d been growing, thinking. Fiona was right. Mickey had hardly been in the position to be a doting father. He’d never been shown paternal love in the first place, quite the opposite. It was something he would’ve had to have taught himself, likely starting at a slow and steady pace. But Yevgeny was the product of his trauma, and he hadn’t been ready for Yevgeny. He hadn’t been able to prepare himself to be the kind of father Ian knew he had the potential to be. When Yevgeny was a baby, Mickey could only take things day by day. He’d had Ian to worry about too, either manic or depressed, and always denying the inevitable. Svetlana and the threat of Terry were always breathing down Mickey’s neck. He could only be a caregiver for so many things he hadn’t signed up for, all while arguably needing one for himself. He hardly took care of himself. 

Mickey had done the best he could with what he’d been handed, and anyone who criticized that would meet Ian’s fists sooner or later. 

“I think he could love him, Ian,” Fiona reassured. “I honestly do. Give him time, okay?”

Mickey had always given Ian time, he’d always waited for Ian. Mickey had stayed with him through every one of his episodes, loyalty never wavering. He’d been to fucking prison for Ian, _twice._ Mickey had asked Ian to wait for him once, and the worst mistake Ian had ever made was lying that he would. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. 

<><><><>

Mickey found every way to make himself scarce in the following two days, he’d get up early and come home late, the most acknowledgment he gave Ian was a nod here or there, and the coffee waiting for him in the morning. Ian could do nothing but let him ride it out. 

On the third day, when it was Ian’s turn for an early morning shift, he woke up to discover the remnants of Mickey’s previous late night. He’d left a beer can on the table next to their open laptop. Curiously, Ian logged on.

Mickey had left the computer open to one of those question and answer forums, which made Ian’s upper lip turn into a fond smile without even realizing it. 

**_Posted by anonymous at 12:23 am_ **

_My husband wants a relationship with my kid but i haven’t seen the kid since i was in the joint and my ex wife hates my fuckin_ _guts. don’t know if I ever liked the kid or if he ever liked me. Complicated shit how he came to be. when i was around the kid, my husband was too. well he wasnt my husband then but whatever. he was always so much better with the baby than i was. I dont think he believes it tho. More complicated shit. I wanna make him happy, but i dont know if ill be able to look the kid in the eye. Could use a 2nd opinion_

Ian swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh: at the ridiculousness of it all, at Mickey’s inconsistent punctuation, or if he was about to cry. For the first time ever, in his own strange Milkovich way, Mickey was asking for help. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! long time no update and for that, you have my deepest apologies, but i'm hoping this one and the next few will make up for it! this chapter is the longest one yet, and i poured a lot of my heart into it (..and rewrote it like three times) so i hope it satisfies you for now! in other news, chapter 5 is already almost done too, and the rest of the fic is all planned and outlined, i've got my notes down, so it shouldn't be too long now!
> 
> CW/TW: this chapter begins a deeper discussion of mickey's trauma that will be a central point in the next few chapters, so if any of his past (as seen/mentioned on the show) could be triggering to you, please read with caution. 
> 
> come say hi on twitter @chrrygallaghers, and don't forget to tip your fic author in our preferred currency of comments and kudos! :)

Mickey’s phone buzzed in his pocket while he worked. Normally he would ignore it until his break, he wanted to avoid the flack from his boss if he had it out on the store floor, as he wanted to avoid any interaction with her, period. But the clock was on the verge of hitting 1:00, his break (yes, he was counting the minutes) and he had never seen Old Army so void of life, so _fuck it_ , he thought, what harm could scrolling his phone really do?

Of course, it was a text from Ian. Mickey scratched at his forehead, not sure how to react to the words flashed across the screen. 

_From_ **_Ian_ ** _to_ **_Mickey_ **

_you left the computer open. talk when i get home? off at 7 ill bring dinner. love you_

Mickey’s initial instinct was to chide himself for being such a dumbass and not remembering to exit out of the damn question and answer thing (could one really blame him though? It was the first computer he’d ever owned, fuck if he knew the etiquette), and then continue to run away from his problems for as long as he absolutely could, until they caught up to him and really bit him in the ass, but under that was a pulling desire to retreat. Somewhere deep down, in a pit that felt like it expanded to consume more of him every day, he wanted to finally let his guard down. He had been, letting Ian in, ever since he got himself thrown in prison for the bastard for the second time, but there were still things Mickey thought would choke him if he let them leave his mouth. 

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. 

Mickey didn’t reply to the text, but he knew where he’d be found, come 7 pm. 

<><><><>

“Hey,” Mickey exhaled, appearing in the doorframe of their little living-room. “I’m here.”

Ian smiled uncertainly, “I wasn’t sure you were gonna show up.”

“Said you’d bring dinner didn’t you?” Mickey shrugged, all smug and dismissive. 

“Yeah,” Ian chuckled nervously, “yeah I did. Got some shit from the diner, if that’s okay?”

Mickey nodded, he’d grown up poor enough that his instincts still told him food was food, even when he did have the means to pick and choose.

Ian turned towards the paper takeout bag on the table, “you wanna eat or talk first?”

Mickey hesitated, it felt so foreign. Talking out their problems. How very constructive married couple of them. He couldn’t remember a time they’d ever done that before. It had always been fight until they fucked it out, throw a couple of punches, or run away until one of them missed the other so bad that they forgot why they were mad in the first place. 

Mickey swallowed hard, “say what you gotta say, Gallagher.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Ian, don’t fuckin’ push it, I said say it,” Mickey gestured for him to just come out with it.

Ian began his anxious, spit-fire spiel. His words always tumbled out fast when he had something to get off his chest, as if they were racing each other. “I’m so fucking sorry, Mick. I don’t know what I was thinking, seriously. I should’ve told you. I mean, I didn’t mean to go behind your back, but I guess I was just so scared you’d say no,” Ian’s voice softened. “I just wanna be a dad so bad, Mick. So bad. I got all jealous of Lip, and attached to doing the whole parenting thing with Franny when Debs was locked up, and I was fuckin’ stupid.”

Ian paused to glance at Mickey, whose expression was unreadable, still.

“Don’t get pissed at me for not saying this before, either; but I looked it up, you know? Adoption. When we weren’t sure if Debbie was gonna get out and we were trying to figure out what to do with Franny if she didn’t. It’s basically impossible, legal adoption when you’ve got a felony on your record. And that was just trying to get custody of a family member. No fucking way they’d let us take in ‘some stray’, like you said on our wedding day,” Ian sighed. “I wasn’t even sure you meant that either, though it might’ve just been some sappy spur of the moment bullshit.”

“I think I did,” Mickey mumbled, looking not at Ian, but at his own hands. “Mean it.”

Ian looked at Mickey tenderly, unspoken. That reassured him. He loved this man more than anything in the world, he would make this right. 

“I just thought, you know, Yevgeny’s yours, legally, still, right?” Ian spoke up again.

“Never officially gave up custody, just never asked for any,” Mickey affirmed.

Ian nodded, he knew this already. “So Yevgeny could be our shot, at being parents-”

“Ian, that ship has fuckin’ sailed. He’s like six, I can’t just wander in now and be like ‘what’s up, kid, I’m your dad. Didn’t give a shit ‘til now, also I was out of the country, and in prison.’ Fuck no, Ian, what kinda bullshit is that?” Mickey interrupted. “I don’t have jackshit to offer a kid, I’m not fuckin’ father material. All I got is Terry’s example leading the way, you want me to fuck the kid up as bad as I am, for life? Fuck no you don’t, Ian. Yevgeny’s better off not knowin’ my name.”

“Mickey, you can’t tell me both of us would’ve taken a father who actually gave a shit, a couple years late over what we had. Why would you rather give him nothing at all?” Ian argued.

“That’s fucking rich, Ian. You had a second shot at a father, a yuppy Starbucks motherfucker, and you didn’t even take it,” Mickey retorted.

“That’s different, Mick. He didn’t come looking for me. I would’ve had to beg him for anything, why the fuck would I have wanted that?”

Mickey bit his lip, thinking. He knew there was some truth in that. 

“I just don’t get it,” Ian started. “One minute you’re all ‘yes I want kids’, and the next you’re saying you can’t, ‘cause you’re not cut out for it or whatever the fuck. Just fucking explain it to me, make me understand.”

“Of course I want a family with you, Ian! That’s all I’ve ever fucking wanted.”

Mickey’s eyes were wide, and they weren’t dry, his expression was more unabashedly honest than Ian usually ever saw him. 

“So what the fuck is the problem when I try to make that happen?” Ian cried.

“Yevgeny. Yevgeny is the fucking problem, Ian. You said you read the fucking message on the fucking computer, don’t you get it?” 

When Mickey put it like that, Ian did. He put the pieces together and it hit him all at once. Suddenly, he felt sick.

Ian inhaled, but he couldn’t seem to gather a breath. “Fuck. Fuck, I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid, Mick. I’m sorry.”

Mickey shook his head, stumbling over to sit on the couch. “Not your fault, it was gonna come up at some point or another.”

“Come ‘ere,” Mickey motioned for Ian to sit next to him, Ian did.

“It’s not a guilt thing,” Mickey began. “Why I don’t know if I can see Yevgeny. I dunno, maybe it should be, probably would make a shitty dad.”

“No,” Ian disagreed. “No, it shouldn’t be. I should’ve realized that before. God, you put up all my bipolar bullshit, you know how everything is, and I can’t figure out this one fucking thing. I was _there_ , Mickey, Jesus.” 

“Wish you weren’t. Wish you hadn’t seen that. Wish he hadn’t touched you,” Mickey muttered. 

“Don’t make this about me,” Ian warned, wrapping an arm around Mickey’s shoulders, he pulled him close. “You never let anything be about you.” 

Mickey huffed in dissent. He didn’t like admitting that, either.

“He traumatized you, Mick. And he used Svetlana to do it. It should’ve been the only thing on my mind. I let this fucking baby fever blind me,” Ian scoffed at himself.

“Don’t want you thinkin’ ‘bout that anyway,” Mickey said.

“You know what I mean,” Ian replied.

“Should’ve been honest with you sooner,” Mickey mumbled into Ian’s skin. “I was never very good at that.”

“Shh,” Ian whispered. Mickey had taken care of Ian so many times. He’d picked him and stopped him from falling, he’d stood in as a fucking bedside nurse. He always put Ian first. Ian decided it was high time that he do the same for Mickey.

“I think if I looked at him, I’d just see that day,” Mickey admitted, softly.

Ian held Mickey a little tighter. “I know. I’m so sorry, Mick. I’m sorry I made you think about it.”

“Ian stop, you didn’t mean it,” Mickey rested his head on Ian’s shoulder.

Ian kissed Mickey’s hair, inhaling his scent: cigarettes, Irish Springs soap, familiarity, home. “You’re my favourite person in the world.”

“As I fuckin’ should be,” Mickey nodded towards the rings on their fingers, with the slightest hint of a laugh.

“I think you should go to therapy,” Ian blurted, suddenly.

“The fuck? You wanna send me to a fuckin’ shrink?”

“You need to talk to someone about this shit. I mean, you can talk to me. Always. I’m glad you’re talking to me right now, but a professional, I mean. Someone who can help you figure it all out. Your dad did some horrible, horrible shit to you, that you, no one, ever deserved. You can’t keep living with this shit bottled up inside, blaming yourself. That’s not living, Mickey. You deserve better than that,” Ian said, only love in his voice.

Mickey hesitated, “I don’t know about that, man. I don’t need that, I’m not-”

“Weak? You think you’re too good to ask for help? Too much of a man? You’ve spent years convincing me I wasn’t weak, I wasn’t broken, or a liability for needing the meds, for needing the _shrinks_ , sometimes. You just gonna go back on that now, it doesn’t apply to you?” Ian pushed.

“That’s different, Ian.”

“How, Mickey? I didn’t choose to be bipolar, you didn’t choose any of the shit that your dad did to you.” 

“Fuck,” Mickey sighed in defeat.

“I could go too, you know? To therapy. If that would make it easier,” Ian offered.

“And how the fuck would we pay for that? I don’t know what money you think we got to spend on this in the first place. You just stay not blowing up any more vans, okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll try,” Ian chuckled.

Eventually, the pair drifted off to sleep like that, food left untouched, a light left on, in each other’s arms. 

<><><><>

The psychologist’s office felt like a stark meeting room masquerading as being homey.

The waiting room was stacked with cheesy magazines, vases of fake flowers, with “inspirational” quotes framed on the white walls. Mickey sat in a stupidly comfortable chair, his leg bouncing a little, jittery with nerves as he filled out a pile of paperwork that started with stupid questions and progressively got worse.

 _Name:_ **_Mikhailo Aleksandr Gallagher_ **

_Date of birth (MM/DD/YY)_ **_08/10/94_ **

_Do you have health insurance that covers mental health care (please circle one)? YES_ **_NO_ **

_Do you have a criminal record (please circle one)?_ **_YES_ ** _NO_

“I’m the polar fucking opposite of who they make this shit for,” Mickey remarked.

“What? Pass that here,” replied Ian, who was sitting by his side. “Have you sought out psychological treatment before? C’mon that’s an easy one, hard no.”  
  
Mickey made an affirmative face.

“Are you employed? Yes. Legal resident of Illinois? Yes. Phone number...” Ian scrawled out Mickey’s phone number. “This is easy, Mickey. It’s fine.”

A black woman, middle-aged, of average height, strolled over to the couple. Her hair was pulled up and she was dressed in a blazer and a pencil skirt, with high fuckin’ heels, but not the ghetto whore kind, the business lady kind. Real fancy. It made Mickey uneasy. “Mikhailo Gallagher?” She smiled, flashing perfect white teeth. “I’m Doctor Harris, we can get started, if you’ll just follow me.”

Mickey nodded and stood, and Ian did too, ready to embrace his husband. “You can do this, I love you. I’ll be back here when you’re done.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Love you too,” Mickey said, succumbing to Ian’s squeeze.

When they let go, Mickey followed the doctor down a short hallway, to an office room with big leather chairs, even bigger windows, floor plants, and framed photographs.

“Take a seat, Mikhailo, make yourself comfortable,” Doctor Harris’ smooth voice instructed (Mickey wanted to retort back that that was fucking impossible).

"It’s Mickey. Just call me Mickey,” Mickey exhaled.

“Alright, Mickey. Do you want to tell me what brings you here today?” She took a seat in one of the leather chairs and pulled out a clipboard, beginning to take notes, on him, Mickey assumed. The idea of being analyzed made Mickey want to scream.

Mickey shrugged, closed off. “Ian said I should talk to - uh, someone. He found you online.”

“And Ian is?” 

“My husband,” Mickey didn’t hesitate there. He’d spent too much of his life living in that kind of hesitation, he wasn’t afraid of what people had to say about him being gay anymore. He wasn’t proud of a lot of things, but he was truly proud of what he and Ian shared.

The doctor had no visible reaction, she just continued smiling and nodding, taking her notes. “How long have you two been together?”

“Uh, on and off, like ten years. Married for six months now,” Mickey told her.

“That’s lovely,” Doctor Harris replied. “I’ve been with my husband for fifteen years, we’ve got three beautiful children.” She motioned to one of the photographs on the wall beside her.

Mickey didn’t know what he was supposed to do or say. He hated small talk.

“Do you have a supportive family?” The therapist spoke again.

Mickey had to laugh. Third question, and she’d already hit the nail on the head. Was he that easy to read? “Really? We’re on that one already?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Gallagher, if that’s a sensitive question. I’m just trying to build up a profile of who you are.” 

“Nah, fuck it, you’re gonna wanna know anyway, right?” Mickey inquired.

Doctor Harris admitted that yes, she did want to know, and yes, she probably would have to ask eventually.

May as well dive off the deep end. 

“Ian’s family’s great. Well, his siblings are. Mom’s dead, she was a basketcase, his dad’s basically out of the picture. Worthless fuckin’ drunk,” Mickey started, and quickly found himself stopping. His throat felt like it was closing up at the prospect of explaining his own so-called family.

“And your relatives?”

“My family-” Mickey began again, but couldn’t finish.

“Take your time, Mickey,” Doctor Harris reassured, her eyes parting from her clipboard to take in his.

“My dad’s the worst fucking person I’ve ever met.”

Mickey paused for a breath. 

“He wants me dead, that’s for sure,” he added. 

“Why does your father want you dead, Mickey?” The therapist persisted.

“You fuckin’ stupid? ‘Cause I’m a big ol’ homo, lady. That’s why,” he scoffed.

That got Doctor Harris to shut up, for a moment, at least. “I see.”

Mickey rubbed an index finger against his forehead, repeatedly, a nervous habit. “He was a piece of shit before, ya know. The cocksucking part just pushed him over the edge.”

Harris took him in, slowly, remarking how straight-up Mickey’s delivery was. “Pushed him over what edge?”

Mickey answered her question with another one, “the fuck kinda question is that?”

The therapist was becoming more hesitant as she began to see how tall Mickey’s walls stood. “What I’m trying to ask, Mickey, is if your father was ever physically or emotionally abusive?”

Mickey let out a dry laugh. _Abusive_ , what a word. He wanted to say that where he came from, they didn’t call it that. Knocking someone around was just what they did, he didn’t know a son who hadn’t been hit by his father at least once. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

<><><><>

A hundred fifty bucks. That was the cost of an hour with Doctor Harris. Mickey hated how badly it clearly stressed Ian out, but how he insisted it didn’t. 

Mickey would come home to Ian sitting at the table with his stupid little phone calculator out, crunching the numbers. He’d huff at how half his paycheque was being eaten up by meds and therapy, “ _fucking mental instability_ ” he’d mumble, but as soon as he laid eyes on Mickey, standing behind his shoulder, he’d wipe the frown off his face, pull Mickey into his arms and kiss him like there was no tomorrow. 

Ian would engulf Mickey, make him feel like there was no one else in the world. Ian’s salty lips on Mickey’s, unspokenly telling him how proud of him he was, Ian’s tongue in Mickey’s mouth reminding him he’d always be there, Ian softly biting against Mickey’s neck, making him feel loved, and equally importantly, making him hard. 

<><><><>

“Hi, Mr. Seaver,” Ian knocked on the parole officer’s half-open door, poking his head inside.

“Ian! Please just call me Larry,” the middle-aged man laughed. “Come in, son. What can I do for you?”

Ian took a seat across from Larry’s desk, hands in pockets, nervous the older man would laugh in his face when he presented his inquiry.

“I was actually wondering about a job,” Ian admitted, “sir,” he added, hastily. 

Larry furrowed his brow, “something happen at Patsy’s?”

“No, no,” Ian assured. “I was just curious about, uh, putting my skills to better use?” He said it like it was a question.

“Continue,” the parole officer urged.

“For something better paying. Or with health insurance,” Ian explained.

“I see,” Larry nodded slowly.

“I was an EMT,” Ian said. “Before I got arrested. And I was a good one, I think. I was wondering if there was any way for me to get a job like that back?”

“Hmm, kid. Let me see,” Larry began typing at his computer.

“We really need the money,” Ian continued, earnestly. “Mickey and I. My meds are already really expensive, and Mick, needs, well, I’ve finally convinced him to go to therapy. He’s got some shit that needs working out. That’s gonna be, well, hundreds we don’t have. We’re trying to get everything together because we want kids. One day. I don’t wanna have kids uninsured. And my little brother, Liam, he doesn’t have insurance either-”

“Gallagher,” Larry stopped him. “I get it. I’m seeing what I’ve got.”

“Thank you,” Ian mumbled, a little defeated. He tapped his fingers on Larry’s sturdy wood desk, trying distracting himself as he waited for an answer. Larry would mumble a maybe, or a thinking sound every few seconds, but nothing too convincing.

“You’re bipolar right? That’s what the meds are for,” Larry asked.

Ian nodded in the affirmative. “That’s in my file, isn’t it? From the plea deal?”

Larry scrolled down some more, “yes, yes it is.”

The P.O. quietly pondered his screen for another few beats, before speaking again.

“I’ve got to be honest with you, Ian,” Larry said, making a point of not using Gallagher or ‘son’. “I’m sure you know how difficult it can be to get an emergency services job with a mental illness, let alone with a felony conviction you’ve claimed is connected to that mental illness.”

It was the inevitable answer, and the one Ian had dreaded, his face fell.

He stumbled to his feet, zipping his hoodie and shoving his hands in the pockets of the denim jacket he wore layered on top of it, as he went. “Nevermind then, Mr. Seaver. I’m sorry for wasting your time.” 

As Ian yanked open the door, Larry stopped him.

“Wait, Ian. I got something.” Larry said, “They’d need to do a mental health assessment, and they wouldn’t put you on the rig right away. Your criminal record pretty much negates your previous experience. I can’t promise they’ll take you on, for real after training, but I’ll put in a good word, do what I can.” 

“You serious?” Ian asked, a newfound hopefulness mixed with disbelief on his face.

Larry smiled, standing to clap Ian on the back. “You betcha, Gallagher. I like you and your husband, you’ve got your hearts in the right place. Circumstances just haven’t been on your side. Go get your Mickey what he needs, I’ll send you the job information.”

Ian all but hugged the P.O. “Thank you, thank you. I won’t fuck this up, I promise,” he shook the other man’s hand.

“Prove ‘em wrong, Gallagher.” 

<><><><>

By the end of the fourth weekly session, Mickey had spilled his guts more than he thought was ever possible.

He’d told Doctor Harris all about Ian, who was his rock, what he loved more than anything else imaginable, how their promises of in sickness, and in health meant so much more than cliche marriage vows, he’d told her about his arrests, and Mexico and the cartel, and how he’d nearly got Ian to come with him. He alluded to just how whipped he was when he explained how he’d gone back to a Chicago prison just to be with newly incarcerated, fresh out of gay pastor fame Ian. He told the psychologist about them all: about his sister, Mandy, who he hadn’t seen since before Mexico, but who was, according to the last time Ian had heard, in Miami or Massachusetts or Memphis, doing better than ever (during his third hour with Harris, Mickey had implied the things that his father used to do to Mandy, but he avoided stating it explicitly, “that’s her shit to tell,” he’d said). He reported on all five of Ian’s siblings and their antics: Lip and Tami and their baby and their asbestos-infested house that Lip was so fucking excited about. Mickey recalled how Lip would bribe Debbie and all the guys with beers that Lip himself couldn’t drink, to come over and help with the renovations (Tami’s piles of Tamietti money could only be stretched far enough to pay for materials; no matter how North Side she was, they were still too poor for contractors). Usually, the beers were left unopened, no one wanted to be the first to crack open a cold one in Lip’s hard-earned sober house, but Ian, Mickey, Kev, Debbie, Carl, and even Liam, accompanied by a stack of fractions homework he’d pester Lip to assist him with, would pile in to lend a hand. Really, it would end in Carl and Mickey passing a joint, Kev and Ian maybe being useful for some heavy lifting, and Debbie doing the bulk of the work. She was the only one who could actually get shit done (“fucking _men_ ”, she’d mutter, wiping sweat from her forehead with her sleeve). Mickey told the therapist the tales of the California-living Fiona, who’d brought all those Gallaghers up to be who they were in the present, Debbie’s arrest, how she’d nearly ended up a sex offender, and how her little daughter had strangely become something of his best friend; how proud the whole family was of Carl’s recent acceptance into the police academy, until Liam had handed him a Black Lives Matter article over family dinner of White Castle and leftovers, and told his older brother he was now “just another pig oppressing his people”, that had set off a bit of a dispute. The doctor had replied, grinning, that she thought she would like Liam, Mickey agreed “he’s a smart little shit.” Mickey spoke of how the Gallaghers and Milkoviches only became more and more intertwined: his cousin, Sandy, who had walked him down the aisle, was fucking Debbie long-term now, and they’d become nearly as domestic as she’d once mocked him and Ian for being (Sandy even once claimed that Franny had slipped out a “thanks, Mama” as Sandy had turned on her favourite cartoon). Mickey couldn’t help but feel a scrap of pride when he mentioned how Sandy had said to him that she would’ve never come out if he hadn’t first. Mickey informed Harris that Kev and Veronica, who’d once been with his very own crazy Russian ex-wife, and their shit-hole bar, were Gallaghers, too, in every sense but the legal name. He briefly referred to that very ex-wife, and their son together, off somewhere north living lavish, but he didn’t go into detail. Yevgeny and his conception would be the last thing in the world Mickey would detail, if he had any choice in the matter, and for the first time, he did. 

Of course, Mickey also revealed some truths about the less admirable Milkoviches: his brothers, Joey and Iggy and Colin, who’d he never had much in common with except for some shitty DNA, a disdain for the rules and a love for a good hallucinogen, who hadn’t spoken to him since he’d become engaged to Ian (per his father’s request, he assumed. Mickey was no longer a Milkovich brother in any of their eyes, he’d made his “faggot status official with the state”, one couldn’t come back from that). Painfully, Mickey told Doctor Harris about Terry. Mickey told her about how he’d had thrown him and his siblings around as kids, but it hadn’t been _too_ bad until his meth-head mom, who’d been the one taking the brunt of the beatings, had left when Mickey was eight, only to end up dead a few months later. He explained the year he was eleven, in foster care, which was even worse than home, after Terry had fucked off with the Sinaloa cartel. Mickey recalled realizing he was gay when he was thirteen, a death sentence in a family where the only form of father-son bonding was going out for a good ol’ neighbourhood fag bash, he’d sworn he’d stuff those feelings deep enough away that they’d disappear, and that he wouldn’t ever tell a soul. Mickey revealed that when Terry did eventually find out, he had had no choice but to marry Svetlana, and when Mickey said the words out loud, a violent bar fight had ensued. He explained his father’s more recent actions: showing up to the Gallagher house to point a gun in his face, burning down his and Ian’s original wedding venue on the morning of their big day, how Mickey had taken out a restraining order against his father after the wedding, not that a court of law had ever stopped Terry from being a murderous psychopath. 

In all, he really had told her about his family: the good, the bad, and the ugly. 

Mickey didn’t know what to say when Harris had eventually said to him, forward and factually, as if it was something that couldn’t be disputed, that he was “one of the strongest people she’d ever met, and she’d met a lot of people.”


End file.
